The Brief Autobiography of Miranda Priestly
by sweetdivision
Summary: The life and times of Miranda Priestly as told by the fashion editor herself.


When one begins to tell the story of one's life, it seems logical to start with the oldest memory one can recall. That singularly spectacular defining moment in which a young mind captures its first impression, marking it forever. For most, it is an interaction with a family member. Perhaps it is the image of a particularly favorite toy. An entire incident or a mere second, pristinely preserved. My first recollection, my first true memory, is a feeling. Overwhelming emotion that so effortlessly inserted itself into my consciousness, remaining there for decades to come.

I first learned the destructive seduction of jealousy at the age of five.

Now, in the event you should ever experience jealously, I offer you my sincerest condolences. There is no greater sign your relationship, your self-confidence, or your tranquility is failing than if you can feel it breaking within the very fiber of your existence. The truest of romantics will tell you jealousy is a miraculous, natural reaction, one that invigorates us to defend any advances an individual makes upon our loved ones. That we instinctually crave that which we do not have so that we may improve ourselves. This is a false notion. Jealousy begins internally. An infection. Distrust. The seed of doubt planted so deeply, it often goes unseen until it is entirely too late.

Yes, jealousy is natural, in small doses. Gentle reminders of commitments are reasonable for couples that are deeply in love. But this is not jealousy in its true form, oh no, for what Shakespeare called the "green-eyed monster" is so much more than light teasing when the waitress looks at your partner a little too long. It is profound pain and suffering. Green and sickly, it is a virus.

There is artistry in the manner in which jealousy infests your soul. We imagine pain as overwhelming, a blast, a shot, an incredible explosion that happens suddenly. Jealousy's craft is precision, like a needle. A finite piercing of the skin, a very pointed, exact dose of pain. It will not kill you, but it will draw from you, slowly, ounce by ounce of blood, leaving you weak and exhausted.

Jealousy is so very natural and we feel it constantly. Lovers, jobs, houses, the list is endless. Envy is the greatest trick of the mind. Our perception whispers darkly in our ear what we lack, feeding on our self-doubts.

We are so easily tempted to tear ourselves apart.

And so, at the tender age of five, I felt it begin to feast ever carefully upon me. Not for love or romance, not the noble reasons to endure the sickening burden.

I was jealous of Susan McCormick's dress.

It seemed fitting my introduction to one of the seven deadly sins occurred in the walls of our humble church, on the night the masses celebrated the birth of Christ no less. This was before I fully learned the prayers I would inevitably forget.

It was made of rich velvet, a proper Christmas dress by all accounts. A precise pattern of plaid, interlocking reds and greens that looked crisp and clean against the bright white of her stockings. Her new black shoes shined and the buckles upon them sparked. The entire outfit was topped off with a big, red bow that held her hair back.

There, sitting in the pews, looking at Susan's dress, the whispers began in my mind.

My own dress was secondhand, or more likely thirdhand as it was worn by my two older sisters. Grey. Itchy. Even my later mastery of fabrics could not dredge whatever that demonic material was from my memory. The fit was horrific; my mother had attempted to mold the potato sack to my small frame, a much smaller frame than the two young girls that had worn it before me, but her sewing skills were only capable of tiny tears. The dress was lopsided and riddled with mediocre attempts at fixing not-so-tiny tears. The shoes were not shiny. My stockings had runs. I had no bow.

Amongst a sea of hymns I learned that the priest would claim Susan and I were equal in the eyes of God, but money was a language in which even the Catholic Church was fluent, evident by the basket so frequently passed for donations. Susan's family knew it well. My family was foreign to the knowledge of it.

I promised myself then and there I would one day acquire a dress better than Susan's, and it was sealed with an "amen" from the ocean of people that surrounded us.

I was clever for my age. Asking my parents wasn't an option. When one has five older siblings, one quickly learns the state of affairs. My father was a construction worker. We lacked money, and we the children didn't bother asking our parents for it. I employed different tactics. Growing up, I assisted my eldest brother with his chores as he was the one among us that was employed, and this earned me the occasional dime or quarter which I feverously horded. The neighbors were not spared from my youth and charm, who found it cute to offer me a coin or two to sweep their porch. In the extremely rare instances my mother was able to spare enough to send us to the candy store, my change went unspent. Each night I would count my bounty, calculating its slow but assured growth.

Jealousy, envy, and greed are all close companions.

Each passing year brought new opportunities. School was an exciting endeavor; that velvet dress had already made me hard. I realized intelligence was not so easily purchased and that having it made me richer. Art classes brought me happiness. Math classes taught me determination.

Everyday I walked to school, and everyday I passed the window display of the tailor's shop. They certainly weren't epic fashion statements or glorious objects of couture, but well-constructed, appealing dresses hung there. The dresses changed over the years, as did my maturing reflection in the glass. My hunger grew. I had long outgrown the clothing of children, and my tastes expanded beyond my peers. Echoes found in the images of History textbooks called to me. Stealthily browsing the newsstand's bounty of magazines when the salesman wasn't looking was one of my talents.

I either needed money or I needed the skills to make clothing. An avenue presented itself to attain both.

I didn't step inside the tailor's shop alone until I was fourteen.

I had gone with my mother a handful of times when her and my father had managed to scrap up enough to repair an old but needed garment. Our neighborhood was small and everyone knew everyone else. So when I entered one day on the way home from school, Mr. Gallagher, hunched with age and squinting behind his glasses, walked to the front of his store to greet me.

"Ah, Miriam, what brings you here?"

"I would like to work for you, sir."

I still recall is wheezy laugh, which almost always preceded a fit of coughing. Years of smoking did that to a man.

"And why should I hire you?" he grinned in amusement.

I cut straight to the point. "You change that window display every month."

"I sure do," his voice was syrupy as if speaking to a child.

I remember the attempt to stand taller. "You used to change it every week. It also takes you longer to do it."

"Old folks like me don't like stepstools."

"I can do it."

He still held the bemused smile of an adult not communicating with a mature equal. "That only helps me out once a week."

"I can clean. My mother also taught me to hem."

A slight lie. As I said before, my mother's idea of sewing was horrific. Mr. Gallagher looked doubtful. But I was destined to thrive in moments of desperation.

"If I work for you everyday after school and on Saturdays, you would only have to sell one extra dress from your display case, or based on your current rates, alter five more garments per week in order to afford to pay me two dollars for every hour I work here. Which, with my help, will be easy to do, sir."

Suddenly, his eyes grew a touch more serious.

"You're good at math."

"My teacher says so, sir."

He leaned against the counter "I can't do two dollars an hour. Dollar-fifty."

"Dollar-sixty, and you teach me to make clothes."

He met me with a kind smile and a handshake. And so Mr. Gallagher and I struck a deal.

Do not forget that name, reader. Without that man, there would be no Miranda Priestly. My ambition began with the a dress in church, but my fate started to turn in the tiny back room of the tailor's shop when I first picked up a needle.

Every free moment I had for the next four years was spent in that shop. My first order of business was getting on my hands and knees to scrub every inch of the place. My new boss set me to work on the ladder, organizing selves and changing displays. For the first few weeks, I was charged with minding the front of the shop, greeting guests as cheerfully as possible. This is where I learned the art of telling people what they wanted to hear. I considered it a game how many garments I could sell before I was sent home for the evening. I became quick with numbers and counting change, a race to impress each customer with my speed and accuracy.

However, when Mr. Gallagher sat me down in his back room and started to teach me the trade of loving clothing, it was as if church had been inadequate at expressing the deep devotion and loyalty a person could have in their faith. It was as serious as God. It wasn't a game, it was simply pure joy. I touched rich fabrics, even smelled them. I learned how to control them, bind them with thread and give them purpose. I learned how to let them control me, training my eyes to understand which colors, textures, and patterns called out to each other. I watched as the smallest adjustments in fit could revolutionize a garment. I collected my humble salary in addition to this magnificent wealth of knowledge.

The only money I ever spent was on fashion magazines. If I was not in the dimly lit shop, I was at home reading. Always reading. Not just the magazines but books, any books I could acquire. I observed my siblings one by one as they slowly inched towards adulthood, analyzing their failures and successes. Education was the way out, and I was desperate to get out. Out of our house, out of out town.

Out of second-hand clothes.

The years trickled by. I graduated top of my class. I cannot speak to any sense of a social life at that point in my life. It was time to fly away but my choices were limited. I could not afford the tuition to attend a university, but I had accumulated a reasonable sum through my adolescence. My older sister escaped our town through marriage, but she was rather dimwitted. I knew a better path lay hidden for me.

My Gallagher's brother, also employed in the tailoring business their father had taught them, worked for an up-and-coming designer in New York and had minor connections to the fashion industry there. My mentor reasoned that certainly this brother could find me something. It would be a start. I could afford a pathetic little apartment with what I had saved before I attained a salary elsewhere.

After a few more letters exchanged between the siblings, the purchase of a train ticket, and a series of goodbyes to my family, the deal was set.

I boarded the train to New York with one small suitcase and never looked back.

You might notice I do not speak much about my parents or appear at all heartbroken at the thought of leaving them. I suppose I loved them in my own way, but they were not remarkable by any means. Dull and tired. I remember they always appeared tired. They were true creatures of the world I felt I was destined to escape, and, therefore, I left them behind. Most of my early years are a grey void in my mind for the town itself and the people in it were just as blurred and grey. I did cry on the train, but not for them.

To this day I wonder what became of that little tailor shop.

New York welcomed me with electrifying energy. It was in a constant state of movement, glimmering with potential. The people that walked her streets all exhibited their own flares and sense of fashion that inspired my tastes. The old and new architecture met each other in harmony as the urban landscape grew and evolved. Art was in the graffiti of the alleys as much as it was in the high-end, expensive shops I aimed to one day frequent.

My contact made good on his promise, and my name was give for a handful of open positions in the city. The story may sound familiar to you. I wanted a career in the fashion world, and upon entering, I was a nobody. I took the job they gave to nobodies.

I became the assistant to the Editor-in-Chief of _Vogue_.

The head of the company and my boss was a woman, a brilliant but tough woman. She made me work for my keep. She was firm and operated like a drill instructor. However, she was thoughtful and often willing to share knowledge of the industry, even with me, for which I am to this day very thankful. Do not misunderstand me—my job was one of extreme arduousness and tenaciousness. My employees now gasp at my evil, harsh demands, but little do they know that I offer them mercy. After all, the job I give to two assistants, I was forced to do all on my own. I merely suggest that I found the compensation fair for the demanding job to which I submitted myself.

Unfortunately, men thought they ruled everything then, as they still mistakenly believe now. My first year at _Vogue_, they still held enough positions of power to make the ordeal troublesome, including the Artistic Director. Sweetheart. Dear. Darling. With each nickname flung my way, my resolve only grew. As if the acid in my gut was heated by my anger and stung me, my loathing of the man was a piercing, searing, and constant discomfort. And not only him but my coworkers as well, the other minions that constantly sought validation in their ability to prove themselves superior. Where did I go to school? Where was I from? I quickly realized I was surrounded by constant proof that the fashion world would find me inadequate, unworthy, and spit me back out to the little hole I had crawled out of. Your coworkers were also your future competition. I had spent countless moments examining fabrics, understanding construction, and mastering pricing down to the very thread. They had spent countless dollars on fashion school, amounts of money I had never known in my eighteen years.

Interesting thing, the green-eyed monster of Shakespeare. The play of _Othello_ always stuck with me from school. A man, jealous of his friend, tricks his friend into being jealous of his wife's possible lover, a lover that does not exist. The jealous Iago tells Othello not to be jealous, therefore making him jealous. The human mind fascinates me. The more we are told no, our lust only grows, not weakens. This is exactly what jealousy is. An endless cycle of realizing what we do not have furthers our desire to have it. I wanted the power men seemed to think was their birthright. I wanted the education my family had been too poor to afford.

Yes, this monster was my ally when I joined the halls of _Vogue_, my personal Iago, silently murmuring to me throughout the day. _Take it from them. Take it._

I lied. How much more people liked me when they thought my vast knowledge came from a university like theirs, that my family lived in a home that didn't leak with every rainstorm! I was a seductive force slowly breeding respect from my peers.

You wonder about my name. You think my rebirth was meticulously planned. It was perhaps my clumsiest lie, one of my first, hastily formed during my interview. Miranda, the name of the old woman that lived across the street from my parents. Priestly, a variation of a surname I once found in a Science textbook. Violà.

My baptism was fire.

As our country underwent vast political and social change, so did fashion and womanhood and sexuality. It was chaotic but it was the mission of _Vogue_ to capture this new social revolution. The magazine truly meant something then. The editor then was cruel but genius. Every outrageous demand of my employer was met. I offered no sympathy for those that were unable to keep up, and as my coworkers failed, I gained. My employees today shudder at my commands, but they forget I too endured them. Running across town, constantly supplying coffee, staying late nights. And I did all of it under the lecherous eye of misogynistic managers who thought fashion was merely marketable sex and nudity. While they scrutinized my boss, they also scrutinized me. I sacrificed my life to that place. I was accountable to no one. The galas, the clothes, the headaches, the shoots, the soreness, the pains – everything was mine and I owned it.

Perhaps that's why I ended up in the hospital after I passed out from exhaustion one afternoon.

I recall I was standing in corner while Louis Vuitton's people gather a number of boxes I would later carry back to _Vogue, _the first time I had been still in what felt like weeks. Then suddenly I recall not standing. The subsequent hazy fog parts only to reveal fragments of the emergency room and an IV. My attention sharpened after that. There was a doctor that peered down at a clipboard and proceeded to interview me in an attempt to isolate the reasoning for my collapse, besides the fact I was working over sixty-hour weeks.

"Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Do you drink?"

"Rarely."

"When was the date of your last period?"

I couldn't remember. My cycles revolved around the publication of each month's _Vogue_, not the revolt of my uterus.

This made the doctor pause.

"Any pains or discomfort in your abdominal region?"

Again, I couldn't remember.

This made her look as if I was psychotic.

"You can't remember if you've been hurting or not?"

After our delightful chat, the rest of the afternoon involved a series of tests that, quite frankly, like much of my life during that time, only exists now as a blur with a few key fragments of conversation.

"Sit here."

"Lay down."

"Take a deep breath."

"You'll be good to go home tonight."

"Your condition is hereditary."

"Your chances of ever conceiving children are extremely low."

Apparently, I had now received one last parting gift from my family. Not just a revolting uterus but an extremely dysfunctional one.

As I said before, everything was mine and mine alone. That night, alone in my apartment, I momentarily grieved the children I would never have. The next morning, I returned to work. Life went on.

Do not think me cold, at least not for this. My heart had hardened long before it, and while it stunned me, I had not dreamed of being a mother. That possible future for myself, while I mourned it briefly, was easy to let die.

I noticeably made more time to enjoy the fruits of my success after this unfortunate news. After all, if my boss was helping to "nurture" one of the Brazilian male models after work before returning home to the caring arms of her husband, I couldn't be blamed for exploring my own tastes after work. Everyone needs a little stress relief I suppose.

I was very aware of one particularly handsome photographer's gaze in-between snaps at photo-shoots, and I finally granted him a more private audience. There was also the rather fit security guard that was easily lured with the right perfume when he opened the door for me. The beautiful secretary to one of the heads of the Accounting department started out shy but was effortlessly charmed. She knew she was undone the second I tucked her stray hair behind her ear. I got very, very good at the subtly and nuisances of making oneself desirable to others.

I also wasn't an idiot. The photographer gave me prints faster, the security guard allowed me in the building when it was technically closed, and the secretary acquired useful rumors about budgeting, all of which made me more effective at my job.

And I was incredible at my job. While the editor knew I was a superb assistant, I secretly waited for the perfect opportunity to truly show her my worth.

One afternoon, my boss and the Art Director stood in her office with a rack of clothes and two mousy little workers from the Art department, planning looks for the upcoming editorial. As I placed a fresh cup of coffee on her desk, I was able to survey the scene.

The two had created extremely different outfits, one bordering on upscale prostitute while the other one was trying to appeal to nunneries everywhere. I typically supported the editor's taste, but I was also deeply aware of her chaotic schedule of late, and it was beginning to show in her work. She bickered fiercely with the man, and I was cast in the very center of it when the director turned around and attempted to lighten the mood with what he thought was charming humor.

"What do you think, sweetheart? Wouldn't you wear this for your boyfriend?" he smirked, gesturing towards his racy pick.

My boss was still staring at the ensembles before them, ignoring his attempts at flirting with me. He expected me to reply with a simple yes and a giggle.

"I wear my clothes for me. I wouldn't wear either outfit," I slowly drawled, ensuring each syllable was firm and clear for him to understand. His mood quickly changed, and his face registered an expression of shock that I deeply enjoyed.

It was time to make my move.

Our editor's head snapped up to look at me. I nodded towards the two choices they had laid before us.

"Our readers don't want to be served up like partially eaten leftovers and they certainly don't want to be sterile, canned goods. Women want power and choice. They want to be subtle and seductive but at their discretion."

I removed the jacket from the first hanger and draped it over the second. I snatched the skirt and quickly perused the rack, replacing it with a tight, cropped pant. Another addition. A switch there. I trusted my eye.

I was greeted with silence when I slowly turned. My boss moved her eyes over my arrangement, and her answer was a nod.

"Let's discuss accessories, Miranda."

The look on the Art Director's face is one I still cherish.

Eventually, my year was up. My reward was Assistant Art Director. It was intoxicating, finally being granted the opportunity to perform my true work and kindle my passions with design. But I was already planning my next move.

The positioning was ideal. The first few months under the sexist pig were deplorable, but it provided ample ammunition. After all, it only took three months of following the man around before I convinced a young woman in the Beauty department to finally come forth about the countless rude comments he had made to her. One would expect it was enough to get him fired, but it was not. But after bribing a model with the promise of selecting her for the next shoot, she too stepped forward, suddenly recalling all his harsh behavior. Exaggerating his already well-known reputation was too easy.

Thus, my year as his second-in-command was quickly over, and I found myself the head of the Art Department. I was the youngest to ever hold the position. They said I was clever, beautiful, and hard working, and I was. Quite frankly, I think I still am.

Many doors opened for me; I was second-hand to the editor of arguably the greatest fashion magazine at the time. I wore clothes that could be considered pieces of art. I worked everyday with priceless accessories and million-dollar items. I triumphantly led my department to some of the greatest photo-shoots to ever grace that magazine. I appeared in interviews, sat in the front row of runway shows, worked with famous designers, molded new designers, and began mingling with actors, famous athletes, and the social elite. At a charity function, I met a young singer, an upcoming rock star that was navigated his way through the top charts. I started dating Hunter with ease. He was easy to charm, though not very bright. I deplored his genre of music, but musicians were in fashion that season. We were soon the couple all the tabloids wanted to talk about.

Suddenly, I was a figure in the public eye, and I owned it. But I wanted more.

I was growing and preparing. I wanted to captain a ship. It was one thing to select the outfits or determine what would be in style, but I did not want to guess at the future—I wanted to decide the future for the masses, giving them ample tools of self-expression. I wanted to define the context. I could see beyond what people wanted now and predict the flow of art for the future. It was my calling.

By the time I was in my early thirties_, Vogue_ was very well established, highly read, and overwhelmingly popular. _Runway_, on the other hand, was still rather new compared to her rivals. She was youthful and, like most that eventually hit puberty, she was terribly unsure of her identity amongst her mature, older, and more self-confident peers. It was, at best, a student's sloppy project before I took it over.

A series of events unfolded. _Runway_ was doing so pathetically, the publishing company fired the editor, a decision that caused more uproar and made more noise in the public than the magazine itself ever did. My boss retired, leaving the position of Editor-in-Chief open at _Vogue _as well. Everyone assumed I would inherit the title, including myself. I had spent the past years networking and insuring my reputation and quality of work were superior. I was wrong. Instead, it went to a British woman well known in the _Vogue_ family. You may know her as Anna Wintour.

No one of great importance left the _Vogue_ family. Why would they? We were the best and we had each likely sold a part of our soul to attain it.

I had left my family once, and I would do it again for this other family. What did I possible owe them? They abandoned me first. Stabbed me in the back and gave my prize to someone else. It felt like the knife was twisting in my stomach slowly for days.

_Revenge_, the monster whispered to me.

This is when Elias-Clark Publications approached me with a deal.

They saw an opportunity to not only weaken _Vogue_ by removing my talents from their ranks, but they would also gain my experience and my working knowledge of their greatest competition to channel into _Runway_. They saw a smart woman, young by company standards for editors, dating a respectable, popular celebrity. My reputation alone would bring readers. My talent was well-known; I couldn't possibly do worse than those that came before me.

I saw _Runway_ and knew I was going to make it a thing of magnificence.

I gave _Vogue_ my two weeks and told them I was planning to start my own clothing line; the truth was too delicate to disclose. I felt a shift however in my work environment even before I told them the false news. Internal movement and rumors hinted that our new editor was giving the magazine and staff a facelift. They thought they were tossing me aside with ease.

To this day, I do not know how my old publishing family responded to my betrayal, and I am certainly not one to look back on my past for reassurance. The switch was done in the shadows that I relished.

It was time to begin my life's calling.

_Runway_ lacked the resources and funding of my previous publication, but this did not stop me. I came from nothing, I could work with nothing. My social calendar exploded in attempt to gain more investors and advertisers. I eagerly stepped before the camera, demanding the attention of the younger readership we needed. I knew _Vogue_ was preparing a shift towards newer designers; they had room to take risks. We needed firm ground. I stripped the sugarcoated techniques that came before me and narrowed our vision. True runways displayed art. High fashion. Moments of awe. Older, seasoned designers. I allocated our funds to hire fresh writers. My magazine slowly developed into something of refined artistry and maturity.

I managed the office with the expectation that anyone under my employ would and should be willing to do everything I had once done when I was in their position. I did not tolerate weakness. I advanced deadlines when I sensed laziness. I changed designs when I could smell the lack of ingenuity. I demanded not just their time and effort but their soul. I wanted passion in their work. I weeded out the half-hearted from the survivors.

Bitch. Devil. Ice Queen. I was ruthless, but our profits skyrocketed.

As for Hunter, we enjoyed each other socially. Love was not a thing either us had the time for, but we were both in need of escorts to public gatherings. We each provided a new sphere of influence for our reputations. There was also the additional benefit of not needing to search and selectively acquire a sexual partner when the need arose. It was a thing of convenience.

It suddenly became inconvenient when I found myself vomiting in the employee restroom of the Elias-Clark building one fine morning.

Surprised? I assure you no one was more surprised than myself. Not only was I told it was a medical impossibility, but I was in my thirties. Pregnancy was extremely unexpected. Can you imagine? I bowed to no man, but a parasitic urchin clinging to my uterus had me bowing repetitively in the bathroom over the toilet. A subsequent trip to the doctor's office confirmed everything. If there was time to panic, I did not have it. When one lives in the eyes of the media, one never has time.

That evening, I immediately summoned Hunter to my penthouse (a true architectural sign you are moving up in the world while living in New York). Some may have taken time to mentally prepare themselves for the seriousness of the conversation I was about to have, but that was a luxury I could not afford.

Hunter paced across my living room floor. He did not do well with anything that even remotely suggested a serious topic of conversation.

"What's this big news that can't wait?"

I considered how other women must approach this conversation with delicate, profound subtlety and quickly decided I was not like other women.

"I'm pregnant."

He nervously laughed. "You're kidding, right?" My bluntness must have sounded like an attempt at deadpanning a joke.

The look on my face must have convinced him otherwise.

"Holy shit," he muttered, falling on the couch, "Like, seriously, how? You're sure?"

"The doctor confirmed it this morning."

"You're sure it's mine?"

"Quite."

He was speechless. I suppose he had a right to be. With dramatic flare, he buried his face in his hands. I allowed him his moment of shock. Of course, I did not go to comfort him, but I remained silent and patiently waited as he tempered whatever thoughts were rampaging in his head.

He slid his hands away from his bearded face. "What are we going to do?"

I took a step closer and crossed my arms as I said, "We are going to get married."

A beat passed before he sighed, "Miranda."

"We can elope somewhere. Tell the press we wanted privacy."

"Look, I'm really honored here but—"

"Don't flatter yourself," I interrupted him, knowing neither one of us actually wanted to celebrate a love we did not have, "Once we're married and the child is born, we will get divorced."

My divorce would be frowned upon but having a child out of wedlock seemed the more risqué option, even during the excitement of the early 90s. I already knew some would anticipate my career ending simply because I was pregnant. That misconception I could handle.

"Can't you just, you know," he muttered anxiously, "Get rid of it?"

His solution was a valid one. I had a choice, and it was one I pondered before I called him. Some woman did not have access to my new wealth that could afford them a clean, safe medical procedure. But that very thought brought back my memories of the hospital trip that robbed me of children forever. And yet here was one beginning to grow. They would be mine. I was rich now. I could give them the life I never had. They could have a real house and not collect pennies. They could have new Christmas outfit every winter. He or she or it would not know shame.

I was told I could not have children. The very thought of never having one made me want one. Even my choice to be a mother was riddled with the stains of jealousy.

"No."

He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees, hunching over where he sat on the couch.

He looked up with a sad smile. "You're a lot tougher than I am."

His pitiful smile did not work on me. "I do what needs to be done. It's time for you to grow up."

Thus, my first marriage was a private little ceremony on a beach in Cancun composed of the pastor, my new husband, my husband's brother, and myself. We only stayed the weekend; I had a magazine to return to and run.

It was so terribly easy to smile for the cameras and explain how sweet it was to have our quiet little dream wedding surrounded by family and friends. The announcement of my pregnancy was carefully timed. A wife. A mother. I twisted the media until I emerged as the ideal woman leading the pinnacle of women's fashion magazines.

Upon our return, the constant spinning wheel of my life continued, but now it included prenatal vitamins and visits to the doctor's office. Just imagine my surprise when I discovered I would be having two children instead of just one. Twins. My defective uterus had surpassed even standard expectations.

I know you're not interested in the details of childbirth, dear reader. I assure you my body experienced all the usual, delicious symptoms of releasing children into the world. I will note that the girls' father was not in the room. He sat in the waiting room. But I do remember what it was like holding the girls for the first time, and he was there for that. When all the noise and doctors and commotion were gone and it was simply us with the new lives sleeping off the crying battle from before, I think even I was in awe of the new joy that now existed in my life.

"Thank you," Hunter said, "For saying no. I would have never gotten to meet the loves of my life if you hadn't."

It was not love that bound us together, at least not love for each other. But he has always been true to his love for our children long after our divorce and for that I will always be thankful for.

The years trickled by, measured in seasons, collections, and designer shows.

You most likely find my recollection lacking in emotion, a common trend at this point in my narration. I assure you that my happiness lay in my work and my children. While I find I am a sufficient writer, no words can truly give justice to the supreme joy of discovering hidden talent or when a photo-shoot comes together particularly well. It is like watching your child take her first steps, her first day of school. My three children were brought into this world from my suffering and pain and watching them learn to navigate the world with my guidance and adoration was my daily joy.

But as to the rest of my time as editor, it is a blur. Budget meetings, false pleasantries, and the firing of assistants. A numb existence filled with chronological events that simply happened.

For example, my second marriage.

Stephen was, by all accounts, the complete opposite of my first husband. He started his career as a banker and accumulated great wealth as an investor. He would most likely be inclined to have intercourse with his Jaguar convertible if it was socially acceptable. His favorite topics of dinner conversation included fishing and taxes.

You may wonder what made me marry the man. On the whole, I wasn't even terribly fond of him. My salary exceeded his. However, we needed each other. We opened doors for one another, gave each other access and contacts in businesses much different than our own. He gave me political edge, solidified my role as the woman people wanted me to be. A wife, a mother, a boss, a fashion leader. After all, my popular, desirable image been the very campaign pitch that won me my position, and I intended to keep it working in my favor as it evolved.

My reign was supreme, and I ruled with glorious purpose. Twelve years as Editor-in-Chief of _Runway_.

I suppose that brings me to the moment Andrea Sachs stumbled into my office.

You may wonder if I was jealous of her. She was young, exuberant, and completely naïve to the dark underbelly of this fashion "stuff." On the contrary, I savored the opportunity to drag her through this bloody business that created me. I took supreme joy in testing her, shattering her hope like all the others.

When she prevailed, even I was surprised, an act I thought was no longer possible. When she began dressing in the manner of a true woman of fashion, something started to stir within me.

As I said before, the seven deadly sins are a close-knit family. Jealousy grew sharper under the tender care of Lust.

In the beginning, it was natural to attribute my growing fondness over how sufficient she was. She truly did remind me of myself, the willingness to submit to the process and perceive the needs of others, twisting them to your will. But while I had grown cold and numb in order to sharply focus my attention, she continued to go about her days with a smile. That smile. Something unidentifiable lurked beneath it. Her wit shined in her eyes, constantly alluding to a greater understanding and cunning than her everyday clumsiness revealed. But her smile revealed depth. I challenged her, pushed her, and she returned to me with a smile and Harry Potter manuscript. Her existence suddenly seemed to subsist in tandem with mine. Whenever I required more coffee, it was already waiting for me at the precise temperature I preferred it. That paper I needed from last week magically appeared on my desk an hour before I even knew I needed it. Above all, it was her gentleness. Where I had eliminated my compassion to thrive, she channeled hers into everything she did.

While my sexuality had always been useful to gaining what I desired politically, the rawness of physical passion had long ago lessoned as my focus turned to motherhood and editorials. It crept slowly back into my bones as I watched her. To this day I feel somewhat foolish to admit it, but how could I not? I had never known such an all-consuming feeling. I had never felt it for either of my husbands. Obviously Hunter had served as a vessel to channel my urges towards, but it was never in the name of something greater. Something deeper. While I rationally comprehended Andrea's makeover was for the sake of pleasing me as her boss, a small sliver of my imagination savored the impossible possibility that she was also appealing to my personal tastes.

Lingering looks when she set down a file before me. Her nervous shuffling when we shared the elevator. The crossing of her legs when we travelled in the town car. There were moments of unfathomable temptation, though I find as I sit down to properly describe them in intimate detail, I cannot. They were not distinct events or specific conversations. The energy that surrounded us slowly changed. My personal demon of jealousy purred at the thought of keeping her close beside us, especially when news that the boyfriend was gone sweetly drifted into my office.

I still to this day cannot exactly surmise what made Andrea different, what made her voice break through the cacophony of white noise that seemed to surround me then. As Mr. Gallagher often said, the thread of fate is sewn by a blind tailor. Admittedly, he was always drunk when he said it.

I would not dare touch her, for I knew it would be my ultimate undoing. My entire life was a study of focus and investment. How could I deviate now and risk everything I had worked so hard to achieve?

But you want to know about Paris, do you not?

Shall I dare admit the private excitement I harbored at showing Andrea the beauties of the French? I selected restaurants I knew she would enjoy. I demanded Roy took specific routes so that she could view particular landmarks even in our mad dash between events. I was no fool; this was not a lover's honeymoon. But this small gift I gave to her, even if she did not know it.

As the events of the week unfolded, I took great care at introducing her to a variety of people so she could begin to build contacts. I knew my feelings would never be returned, but I could nurture her as an employee with potential, and potential she indeed had. Her writing was good, solidly good. She needed cultivating but she still had such time to grow, she was so young. Very young, a fact I knew all too well. But how easy it was to forget about trivial things like age when we were surrounded by the lights, the clothes, the people. This was my domain, and I commanded it well. I ushered her in and exposed her to the wonders of my world.

And then the lovely voicemail from Stephen waiting for me back at the hotel room shattered my pretend little Paris fantasy. I was not even allowed a simple, innocent dream.

He had contacted his lawyer for a divorce. I honestly did not fathom he had the courage to attempt it. Yet another disappointment to add to the list.

Do you still think me cold-hearted? Is it so wrong I did not cry because I was losing my husband but because I was pathetically reminded I had a husband? I allowed myself a moment of weakness and wept for Andrea could never be mine. This I lamented in the secrecy of my hotel room. My divorce was just another flaw in the public image I had painstakingly constructed, the image that now inhibited me from taking what I wanted. The very image I would defend tomorrow by denying Nigel his new promotion. I was jealous of those in the world that had the serene pleasure of traversing this world without purpose. The ignorant souls that had simple jobs and simple families who could afford to fall in love and be happy. My ambition pushed me to the top, inevitably alienating me from my children and possibilities of romance. My girls were punished for my dreams. My soul was tired. Would I be happier existing in a world of simplicity?

It was in this moment that Andrea came to me in my hotel room.

My resistance was low. I found myself revealing small pieces of my thoughts. I was struggling to hold it back.

And then she asked, "Is there anything else I can do?"

The hope was so clear in her voice. I knew. I knew she wanted what I desperately wanted too. But the risk was so great.

Forgive me. I did so desperately want to tell you, Andrea.

"Your job."

I pushed her away and back out the door she went.

I wished to unburden myself. How long had I been playing this game? I was so tired. My life's work began at age five, and I had never stopped. My determination alone had carried me through every bitterness life hurled at me, and while I had succeed in gaining everything I desired, I was so incredibly tired.

Then suddenly I realized that my whole career was built on chasing and securing what I wanted. What was stopping me now from fighting for what I wanted? I wanted her. I wanted to surrender to the feelings I knew we both felt.

I had to go to Andrea.

I tossed the robe aside and put on proper pants. I eagerly wiped away the tears and applied a quick, small layer of make up. What an odd sensation. Excitement. I opened my door and practically trotted down the hallway to her own room, ignoring the one or two other occupants of the hallways that stared as I walked by.

How strange it was to feel free. I would go to her. I would tell her everything. She would finally put words to her longing looks. Together would find the solution to fight Irving and Jacqueline without inhibiting Nigel. I would no longer be alone. Finally, there would be satisfaction. I would finally have peace.

I marched to her hotel room door and knocked steadily three times.

But there was no answer.

Where was she?

I knocked again, but the result was the same. I returned to my room.

I would have answers. I dialed her number, and as it rang, I realized I had told her in my sad fog before she was free for the evening. Her company phone likely sat in her room.

I then immediately called Roy, and questioned him when he picked up.

"Where are you?"

"Do you require my assistance, Miranda? I can be at the hotel right away."

"No, I want you to tell me where you are."

"I dropped Miss Sachs off to dinner downtown about two hours ago," he responded somewhat nervously, "I was enjoying a nightcap in the area."

"Dinner with whom?"

"Some blonde fellow. He looked familiar. She called him Christian."

Well, it certainly wasn't Christian Dior. I snapped my phone shut.

He was likely not a local. Andrea's French was poor; she had proven that on the flight attempting to pronounce the name of our hotel. Someone affiliated with Fashion Week was likely, but he could easily be an assistant or anonymous other that would not have a name worth knowing. After all, I thought, Christian was on the whole a unique name and someone noteworthy that bore it would have been—then it dawned on me.

The writer.

I will spare you the details of the exact manner in which I acquired the name of the hotel in which Mr. Thompson was staying. I still had my tricks from when I once walked in the shadows of greats. I was pacing my hotel room as I called and asked to speak with him, not using my name. A feminine voice calling for a young man in a Paris hotel was not unusual.

After a brief pause, the hotel employee returned to the phone.

"Mr. Thompson is unavailable, might I take a message?"

"Might I please just speak with him?" Do it. Now.

"He is otherwise entertained, ma'am."

She was there. She was in his hotel room with him.

Do you know what it is like to slowly freeze to death? This is the fate a Christmas dress doomed me to long ago. I returned to the cold image I knew, and shifted my gaze solidly back to _Runway_.

The next day, she called me. She pounded on the door, and I slammed it in her face. She chased me down, and I blatantly ignored her. Freesias. That was her duty. I was above her. I briefly wondered why she tried so desperately to warn me. To help me. Perhaps it was the security of her own job through mine. I no longer cared; I was punishing her.

I barely even recall the events of that afternoon, but I am quite sure you have read the papers. I saved my job. Nigel remained at _Runway_. The car ride I do remember. Deliciously, I remember every word. I savored destroying her as she had destroyed me.

Just as when she first started, I swore I would break her. This fashion world she loathed had become her own reflection. I showed her, explained to her who she truly was.

"Everybody wants to be us."

Do you hate yourself as much as you hate me? The disbelief on her face made the beast in my gut grin devilishly.

I felt relief then. She wronged me, I had my pretty, little revenge. She was promptly put in her place as my assistant. We drove to one of the various luncheons I would be attending that afternoon.

I only needed to make a brief appearance. We would leave in half an hour. I turned around to inform Andrea of when she should notify Roy.

But she was gone. I looked briefly in the crowd to see if she was simply misplaced.

Gone.

My hand shot towards my phone. She must have forgotten something in the car. She was swept up in the throngs of people. I only made her feel how I had felt, it was only fair. She couldn't possibly leave.

The phone rang and rang but there was no answer, much like my knocks on the door.

A second. I had only a second to grieve her. Surrounded by cameras, the guards, and the masses, perhaps one might have seen my single second of weakness. I had pushed her away. Of course she would leave if she was in Christian's arms only the night before. How could I dare hope she could be mine? An eternity in an instant filled with that stinging realization that she would never be mine.

And then my second was over. Back behind my precious image and into the crowd I went.

Jealousy is a dedicated lover. She works quickly to embrace you when the world burns you. She is cold, numbing, and digs to build you a place of hollowness. The hope I lived on was gone and she so happily replaced it. _Andrea didn't deserve my affection. She was weak and ran away._

That's all.

Life went on.

I need not explain the utter dullness that consumed me upon my return to the office. I dove back into the security of my art and work. I buried left over feelings away. I welcomed the numbness.

Then one day Emily stood at the doorway to my office. The _New York Mirror_ requested a letter of recommendation for Miss Sachs. I could not get rid of her.

Andrea was smart. The smaller publication was a confortable fit for her and would provide her with opportunities for her talents to grow. However, the green-eyed monster lurched within me. _Revenge_. Punishment! How dare she think she was beyond my grasp? She abandoned me. I could destroy her career in one swift move. Andrea Sachs broke my heart and did not even know it. She most likely did not even think I had a heart.

She was my biggest disappointment. But even then I could not ruin her when she needed me in this final moment.

I shrugged away the temping whispers and granted Andrea a parting gift that she would likely never know about. Emily faxed over the letter before I could change my mind.

Jealousy loosened her hold on me, and the freedom was terrifying. Fate was working out a plan I could not see. Even if she was gone, Andrea had so slightly changed me, and now I was unraveling. Who was I without my anger?

Our paths crossed again. It was so accidental, so brief, I almost missed it. I was leaving a meeting, exiting the grand building of my empire, and I was almost inside the car when I just happened to glance up. She stood on the sidewalk, staring right at me amongst the bustling city crowd, as if carefully placed there by a higher power.

I eyed her from behind my sunglasses.

She waved.

I hastily retreated into the car. Was it because of the letter? Was this just her usually sweet nature? She had looked at me and smiled. Did she miss me?

It bubbled out of me before I could catch it and trap it. I too smiled. How silly it was, but I was so convinced she hated me. Her little wave unlocked a wave of relief that I privately released in the backseat of the car.

But I was not alone. Jealousy, my ever-faithful companion, softly whispered to me like a seductive lover. No, I was above her. Remember whom she chose in the middle of the Parisian night. The smile dropped from my face. _Drive away, leave her in the dust_.

"Go," I drawled at the driver.

_Never let her think she had won some part of me_.

But she had.

Just as the car started to move forward, I exclaimed, "Stop!"

I was so tired of holding together an image I no longer recognized.

The car lurched as it screeched to a halt. Roy looked bewilderedly in the rearview mirror. A few individuals curiously glanced at the vehicle.

With a sigh, I grabbed the handle of the door and stepped out into the street. I blinked back the sunlight as I had removed my sunglasses, but I could see Andrea still stood a few yards away. She looked shocked, and I must admit I was as surprised as she was.

As I walked towards her, there was no voice in my head, no ice in my heart.

I presented myself before her suddenly unsure of who exactly Miranda Priestly was.

"Did you enjoy Paris?" I found myself asking.

Her eyes widened in surprise. She seemed to hesitate before she nervously gushed, "I loved it."

I felt my eyes instinctively narrow at the declaration.

"Was the view more glamorous from Mr. Thompson's room?"

Perhaps I was still somewhat jealous. But I wanted answers.

"How did you know?" she quickly asked. A brief moment passed in which she seemed to change her mind and instead sighed as she looked across the street. "I made a lot of mistakes. He is definitely at the top of the list of biggest mistakes," her gaze returned to me as she said, "I still loved Paris."

Warmth surged in my chest as it always had in her company.

"I commended you for trying to warn me. I never asked why."

Then, she surprised me. She smiled.

"You love _Runway_. You only look happy when you're editing or when you're with Caroline and Cassidy," her voice grew softer as she continued, "No one should take that from you behind your back."

Happiness. When a foreign concept.

"Are you available for dinner this evening?"

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "Dinner?"

"Food, Andrea."

I watched her beautiful face slowly transition from misunderstanding to uncertainty to a genuine grin.

"Food. Food is good."

I nodded once, trying not to reveal the smirk I knew was fighting to appear on my face. I had to at least maintain some of my mysterious charm. But as a matter of fact, by the end of the night, I was laughing so loudly the other patrons of the restaurant we attended thought me mad.

I think I will end here; I rather enjoy the thought of a happy ending.

There is more to my story, and I am certainly not done living it. However, the purpose of this particular passage was not to tell you the entirety of my tale but rather to help myself with closing a certain chapter of it. I buried Miriam long ago, but now I fondly put aside the memory of a dress that for so long defined Miranda Priestly. A clean slate.

As for Andrea, I suppose you will simply need to continue to read Page Six for the latest gossip and discern for yourself what is fact and fiction. After all, the paparazzi did try so very hard to provide a detailed story of our vacation to France, it would be a shame if you did not at least peruse the article.

* * *

My contribution for Mirandy Week is a little late for the Jealousy theme, but here it is. I know it's about Miranda more than it is Mirandy, but I really wanted to explore some inspiration from the book and the movie and my own ideas and fuse them all together. Please review, I always take your critiques very seriously. I apologize if this feels rushed; it got a little too big, but I wanted to post it in time for the fun times. Thanks for reading!


End file.
